Roofs

They are halfway stations
between ourselves and above.
Sometimes like cathedrals,
light comes through
in a shower of stars,
or the sky falls down
through our arms with joy.
The roof between streets
is lapis lazuli burning with opal,
and the roof for rain is a waterfall.

The roof of a blanket
is like no roof at all,
except Jackie has such a roof
where Michael joins in.
Hung between chairs
it becomes a home
as good as any roof
holding up clouds.

What lives without a roof?
Perhaps the sea under clarity
and mountains too tall
or,
a bird rising to forever
on its last soaring flight
to enter a hall,
where we cannot enter.
But for us
the soul has places
where roofs must be,
wide as the world,
or the width of a finger.